Maneuvered by metaphor,
sashayed with clichés,
I looked up and it was still there,
that sun pasted between
a cobalt wall
with translucent clouds
brushing in the fore.
A golden pill hung
before I ever was
and hanging still
when my blip bleeps its last.
I relish every age spot
given by its graces,
and return its due
respect after
tender shoulders
absorb aloe vera.
A light by which
I see.
A warmth by which
I feel.
A presence by which
I love.
Gerald the Writer 
Thanks for your time and thoughts.